


The Case of the Parisian Passenger

by roboticonography



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Steve Rogers Lives, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: Peggy and Howard have a secret. Jarvis and Angie are on the case.
Relationships: Peggy Carter & Angie Martinelli, Peggy Carter & Edwin Jarvis, Peggy Carter & Howard Stark, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 58
Kudos: 252
Collections: SSR Confidential 2020





	The Case of the Parisian Passenger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [em_penny4alittlehope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_penny4alittlehope/gifts).



> This story takes place shortly after the end of Season 1, but is an AU, for obvious reasons.

#### The Night in Question

Mr. Jarvis stood on the wet tarmac, enjoying the peaceful chirp of crickets. 

Moments of stillness like this were few and far between in his line of work, and he had learned to grasp each one firmly with both hands.

Nearby, grass rippled in the breeze. The scent of rain still lingered, but the night sky was perfectly clear, a swath of black silk studded with silver sequins.

It wasn’t long before the distant hum of a twin engine resolved into a gasoline-soaked rattle, the kind that reverberated unpleasantly in one’s back teeth for some minutes after the aircraft had landed.

Mr. Stark had not requested Mr. Jarvis’s presence at the airfield that evening. That was the hallmark of a true gentleman’s gentleman: to anticipate his gentleman’s every whim. And Mr. Stark had no shortage of whims.

Rather than seeming grateful, however, Mr. Stark seemed put out to find him waiting. “What are you doing here? It’s three a.m.”

“I apologize if I’ve overstepped. I assumed, given the lateness of the hour, and the length of your journey—”

“Who told you about my journey?” he bellowed, his ears still adjusting to the relative quiet.

“The FAA, sir,” said Jarvis, mildly. “You filed a flight plan. How was Paris?”

Mr. Stark swore under his breath, but didn’t answer.

Jarvis tried again: “Spring is really quite—”

“Never mind that,” said Mr. Stark. “Just—get out of here.” He flapped his hands in the general direction of the car. “I’ll drive myself.”

That wouldn’t do at all. Mr. Stark was clearly exhausted—and frazzled, which was very unlike him. Then again, according to the flight plan, he’d set himself a gruelling task: he usually made his trips across the Atlantic in a more leisurely fashion. It wasn’t surprising that he’d be a bit wrung out.

“Sir, I really must insist—”

Jarvis broke off as he caught sight of a shadowy figure, lingering in the entrance to the hangar. A surprising development, considering that there hadn’t been any passengers listed on the flight manifest.

It was a decidedly feminine silhouette, carrying a valise. Discretion, then, was clearly the order of the day.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you’d have company.”

Mr. Stark looked emphatically guilt-stricken. He opened his mouth to speak, but not a word came out. This, too, was unlike him: when it came to his dalliances with the fairer sex, he’d always been remarkably free of repressions.

For a moment, Mr. Jarvis wondered whether his employer had gotten himself mixed up in some shady dealings. Again.

Then the silhouette stepped into the light, and it was the butler’s turn to be struck speechless.

“Hello, Mr. Jarvis.” Like Mr. Stark, Peggy Carter looked tired, and dishevelled. She wore neither hat nor gloves; her hair was untidy, her outfit slapdash, as though she’d come away in a terrible hurry. Most shocking of all, her dress appeared to be missing at least one button. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this evening.”

The feeling was mutual, but Jarvis said merely, “A pleasure, as always.”

Her smile was brief, perfunctory.

Mr. Stark sighed, passing a hand through his already unruly hair. “I’ll be a while still,” he said. “Since you’re already here, you can take Peggy home.”

Conceding defeat, Jarvis took Miss Carter’s valise, depositing it in the trunk before ushering her into the back of the car. It felt odd—he was used to her riding in the passenger seat, as a friend and comrade-in-arms. Not as one of Mr. Stark’s… companions.

As he eased the door closed, he caught a glimpse of her face. She looked profoundly unhappy.

He waited until they were on the highway before striking up a conversation.

“How was Paris?” It seemed a safe enough opener.

“Wonderful. But brief, too brief.” Her lips trembled for a moment, before she clamped them shut.

“Miss Carter, forgive the liberty, but… is everything all right?”

“Not quite, Mr. Jarvis.” The shifting light made it difficult to read her expression all at once, but her voice sounded weary.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I don’t suppose there is.” He must have looked rather grim, because she hastened to put on a brave face, adding, “It’s nothing serious. Don’t worry. I’m just—cross with myself. I made an impulsive decision.”

Which was a _deeply_ alarming statement, given the circumstances.

“I don’t regret it, though,” she continued, softly. “Not a moment of it.”

That was marginally better, but still far from reassuring.

She yawned prodigiously. “I know it’s terribly rude, but would you mind if I went to sleep for a bit?”

“Not at all,” Jarvis assured her. “Would you like a blanket, or a cushion? I also have a flask of brandy in the glove box.”

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror; hers had a glint of amusement. “Mr. Jarvis, is the term _arrière-pensée_ in your vocabulary?”

He managed not to smile.

“I thought not. I’m fine, thank you.” She folded her coat into a tidy parcel, and settled herself in a corner. “Goodnight.”

She was still and quiet after that. Jarvis couldn’t be sure, but he suspected she was feigning sleep to avoid continuing their conversation. Perhaps she was worried that she’d said too much - or that Jarvis might think less of her for what she’d done.

He didn’t, of course. She wasn’t the first intelligent, formidable woman to be persuaded into Howard Stark’s bed, and she probably wouldn’t be the last. 

Mr. Jarvis silently vowed to keep her confidence for as long as he lived.

#### The Usual Suspects

Lunchtime was the easiest piece of time to do at the automat. Unlike breakfast, very few people ordered hot food; most of them preferred to grab a sandwich or a piece of pie from the coin-operated hatches. Angie spent most of her time either chatting with patrons, wiping down tables, or taking the coffee pot for a walk.

She’d heard through the grapevine that in a few months, the automat was going to install those mechanical coffee dispensers other places had. Angie wasn't sure what she’d do then. Look cute and make change, maybe.

The other advantage to working the early shift was getting to serve lunch to her favourite customer. Despite the fact that they lived together, Angie didn’t get to see much of Peggy on weekdays, their schedules being so different. Besides which… Angie was worried about Peggy. She hadn’t been herself lately. 

For one thing, she was exhausted all the time, falling asleep seemingly out of nowhere: Angie kept finding her passed out at the dining table, or napping upright in an armchair. 

And even though she had every weekend free these days, she never wanted to go out, not even to a picture show. Peggy loved the pictures, especially if there was a murder mystery playing—she usually had the case solved by the end of the first act. Sometimes, before the movie started, they’d look closely at the poster and make a bet on who the guilty party would be. But she hadn’t wanted to come along with Angie to see _Green For Danger_ , _Murder is My Business_ , or _The Big Sleep_. Angie wasn’t about to go and watch people get murdered on her own. That was no fun.

Peggy’s moods were something else, too. Normally, she was a pretty easy roommate; but just that morning, getting ready for work, she’d snapped at Angie for asking to borrow a pair of earrings, then burst into angry tears over a misplaced handbag.

When Peggy slouched into her usual booth at the automat, pale-faced and pinched around the mouth, it was clear she still wasn’t having a good day. Angie went over to ask what she could get her.

“Just a cup of tea,” said Peggy. “No milk. Please.”

It wasn’t like her at all—when they’d been living at the Griffith, Angie had known Peggy to go back for seconds and even thirds on breakfast, once everyone had had a fair helping. Not to mention all the times they’d gorged themselves on leftover cake or pie when Angie came home with goodies after a shift.

“You feeling okay?” Angie patted her on the shoulder.

“Fine,” said Peggy crisply, eyes fixed on her newspaper. “Thank you.”

Angie slid into the opposite side of the booth. “Those goons you work with giving you trouble?”

Peggy gave her a reproachful look. Even after the little dust-up that had gotten her kicked out of Miriam’s place, all Angie knew about her work was that the phone company was a front for the feds. But _which_ feds, and what they got up to when they weren’t arresting innocent women—well, if Angie had been Peggy’s authorized biographer, that chapter would have been a mystery.

“I know, I know. You can’t talk about it. But those two guys are in here all the time. if you want me to put salt in their sugar shaker, just give me the signal.” She tapped the side of her nose, tipping her friend a wink.

That earned her a smile, at least. “Thank you, but no. They’re not worth your getting sacked.”

“You can’t go back to the office on an empty stomach. You want to keel over at your desk? At least let me get you some scrambled eggs and toast.”

Peggy looked revolted at the thought. She dropped the newspaper and bolted out of the booth. 

Angie tailed her down the hallway to the ladies’ room. 

On the other side of the door, she could hear definite sounds of distress.

“Peg? You okay in there?”

A low groan.

“Look out, I’m coming in.”

Peggy was on her knees on the tile, making an offering at the porcelain altar. Angie crouched beside her, holding her hair away from her face, until it seemed like the worst of it was over.

“You want me to take you home?”

“No, I—I’ve got to go back to work,” she said, pitifully, then retched into the bowl again.

Angie knew there were other reasons why a girl might lose her breakfast. But Peggy wasn’t the hard drinking type, and she’d never gotten queasy riding the bus or the streetcar.

“Peg…”

“Don’t say it.”

“But… are you?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t had time to get—”

“A husband?”

“A _test_ ,” she countered, giving Angie a withering look. “I’m seeing a doctor tomorrow. But it’ll be another week before they call me with the results.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Well, anything’s _possible_ , really, isn’t it?” Peggy snapped. “It’s possible that I might sprout wings and fly away, but that doesn’t mean anyone expects it to bloody well happen!”

Angie held up her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m sorry,” said Peggy, defeatedly.

“Forget about it. You feeling any better?”

“I’m starved. But I can’t seem to keep anything down.”

“Let me get you a malted. It’ll be good for you—they’re full of vitamins and stuff. My cousin Gina swore by it when she was expecting.” She held out a hand.

Peggy accepted it, letting Angie haul her to her feet. “How many cousins do you have, out of curiosity?”

“Well, that depends on who you ask. Actually, it’s kind of a funny story…”

“Angie.” She stopped them both short. “You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Cross my heart,” said Angie. She was a little insulted that Peggy even felt she needed to say it.

The malted milk did seem to help. Peggy’s colour improved, and so did her disposition. She apologized again, thanked Angie, and left.

A short while later, a couple of familiar mugs turned up in Angie’s section.

Angie never forgot a face—a skill that paid off in tips, more often than not. It was the same two yahoos who had questioned Angie about Peggy’s whereabouts that day. She was sure of it. Thompson and Sousa. They didn’t order anything but coffee. 

She took her time pouring, then made a show of wiping down the tables near them as they talked. A lot of it was just shop talk, some case they were working on—but then she heard something that made her ears perk up.

“Carter’s going off the rails,” said Thompson. “Monday, it was napping in the file room. Today, I caught her puking her guts out in interrogation room four.”

Sousa looked concerned. “You send her home?”

“I might have to send her home permanently.”

“That’s a little extreme. She’s probably got the flu or something.”

Thompson drained the dregs of his coffee, clapping the cup into the saucer. “You’ve got a lousy poker face, Danny boy.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. Even you had to’ve noticed she’s starting to get...” He puffed out his cheeks and gestured a round belly.

Sousa blinked hard, but all he said was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think she looks dynamite.”

“Sure you do. That’s why you’re my number one suspect.”

“Well, guess again, Sherlock. Anyhow, you’re one to talk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s spring now, so you can stop storing food in your cheeks.”

Angie snickered.

“Something funny, sweetheart?” asked Thompson.

Angie glanced up, as if she’d just noticed he was there. “Sorry, mister. I was thinking about my cat. She did the cutest thing this morning, she was all curled up in one of my slippers. The things you see when you don’t have your camera, right?” She forced a laugh.

Thompson shook his head dismissively. “That’s what I get for asking.”

“What can I do for you boys?”

“Your job? I’ve been waiting on a refill so long I could’ve gone back there to get it myself.”

Angie tilted her head sympathetically. “Aw, could you? That’d be swell. I’m awful busy. I wonder when we’ll be getting those new coffee robots? I heard that they even add your cream and sugar for you!”

Sousa smirked against the rim of his coffee cup.

Thompson couldn’t seem to decide whether she was joking, or just slow on the uptake. He must have concluded the latter, because he said, “Coffee,” loudly and slowly, pointing to his empty cup.

Angie refilled them both, then made her way back to the counter, wondering why she hadn’t thought to ask the same question Thompson had. Peggy hadn’t gotten herself into trouble. So who was her partner-in-crime?

In spite of his eagerness to change the subject, Angie didn’t think Sousa was it. Peggy had once told her that he was her only friend in the office, but the way she’d said it didn’t make it sound romantic, at least on her end.

Peggy hadn’t had a boyfriend since arriving in New York, as far as Angie knew. She’d wondered, when they first met, whether Peggy even _liked_ men; even a newspaper photo of Captain America looking especially swoon-worthy hadn’t seemed to affect her at all.

But it turned out that Peggy did like fellows—at least, there was one who’d made an impression. She had a picture of him tucked into the frame of her vanity mirror—a weedy little guy with floppy hair. His name was Steve, which was as much as Angie knew, except that he was dead, and Peggy didn’t like to talk about him.

She seemed pretty close with Mr. Jarvis, but as far as Angie could tell, they just got a kick out of being English at each other. He was happily married—and a bit too uptight for the likes of Peggy, anyhow.

There was only one other guy she could think of.

Peggy’s friendship with Howard Stark had never made a lot of sense to Angie. But it seemed to work for them—and Angie knew better than to look a gift apartment in the mouth. Howard was always flirting with Peggy, but she never seemed to take him seriously—and he never seemed to take it personally when she told him he was disgusting.

There had been a weird weekend, a couple of months back. Howard had telephoned for Peggy in the middle of the night (the disadvantage to a phone in every room, Angie had discovered, was that there was no way to escape the ringing). 

Angie had heard just enough of their conversation on her bedroom extension to piece together that Howard was outside, calling from a pay phone on the corner. She’d heard Peggy leaving not long after. 

She’d left Angie a note—some paper-thin story about a friend from back home—and she’d been gone a few days.

She’d been in a real mood after she came back, too. Angie had caught her crying over a dress with a couple of lost buttons—she’d explained, inarticulately, that she’d have to redo the whole row, because the mother-of-pearl would be too hard to match. Which was a pain in the neck, sure, but it didn’t seem like the kind of thing Peggy Carter would spill tears over.

If Angie’s suspicions were right, then the timing of that weekend would fit.

Which meant Howard Stark was the main suspect.

*

Angie got home that night to find Peggy face-down on an antique fainting couch in the drawing room, drooling into the upholstery.

Helping her to bed, she noticed that the picture of Peggy’s wartime sweetheart had disappeared from her vanity table. Like maybe she couldn't quite look him in the eye anymore.

“What happened to Steve?”

“Hmm?”

Angie pointed to the mirror. “Steve. Where’d he go?”

“It’s classified.” She said it without even opening her eyes. “Top secret.”

“Huh?”

She murmured something unintelligible into her pillow. And then she was out cold again.

Angie left her to it.

Whether she would admit it or not, Peggy needed help. Even if she didn’t lose her job, she’d have to take time away; her kind of work wasn’t safe for a woman carrying more than just a pistol. She had some savings, as far as Angie knew, but she didn’t have any family left who could help her out. And being unmarried sure wasn’t going to make things any easier.

Howard Stark was famous for his bachelor escapades. He was involved in some kind of scandal every other week, if the gossip rags were to be believed. If Angie went to him directly, there was no telling whether he’d be willing to take any responsibility at all. He might even decide it was a bad look to have Peggy staying in his penthouse. And then they’d be out on the street.

Angie didn’t know Mr. Jarvis well, but he seemed like a stand-up sort of guy. Peggy trusted him, which said a lot. At the very least, he’d have an idea of how Howard was likely to take the news.

There was only one way she could think of to talk to Mr. Jarvis without Howard around.

*

“Miss Martinelli,” said Jarvis over the phone, for the third time. “Please stop crying. Whatever it is, I’m quite certain—”

“I broke something of Howard’s. A vase.”

“A vase?” He said it the fancy English way, like _pause_ , instead of the normal way, like _case_. “Which vase?”

“They all look the same to me,” said Angie, truthfully. “But it sounded expensive. When it smashed.”

“Smashed, or broke? Which is it?”

Angie gave a dramatic sniffle.

“Is it possible to repair the damage?”

“You better come and check,” she said solemnly.

“I’ll be there on the hour.”

#### The Confession

Mr. Jarvis’s talk with Miss Martinelli was eye-opening, to say the least.

He was deeply disappointed in Mr. Stark. Despite his free-wheeling approach to courtship, he’d never shirked his responsibilities, as far as the appropriate precautions were concerned. Jarvis was surprised Miss Carter had allowed it.

But there was no sense in dwelling on the past. In the present, Miss Carter needed support. And it was up to Mr. Stark to provide it.

Jarvis found his employer hard at work in the study: lounging in his wingback chair, feet on the blotter, highball glass in hand. He was on the telephone to someone—variously called _honey_ , _baby_ , and _sugar_ —arranging a date for that weekend. Jarvis adopted a neutral, non-judgmental expression while he waited for him to conclude his business. 

“What’s with you? You look like you just swallowed a bug.”

(Perhaps not _entirely_ non-judgmental.)

“Mr. Stark, I’ve been given to understand that Miss Carter is… in a delicate condition.”

“Delicate?” He snorted. “That’s not a word I’ve ever heard anyone use to describe Peggy. She’s not in jail, is she?”

It wasn’t a completely unreasonable assumption. “No, sir. She’s—in the family way.”

Mr. Stark’s eyebrows nearly met his hairline. “You don’t say. That’s tough luck.”

“And, given the timing, it seems that you bear some responsibility in the matter.”

He leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily. “You’re not wrong.” At least he wasn’t denying it. “The whole thing was my idea. Though, in my defense, it wasn’t like I had to twist her arm to get her there.”

“Regardless,” Jarvis interjected hastily. He already knew entirely too much about the circumstances as it was. “I believe this particular situation calls for a good deal more than a bracelet.”

“I guess that’s true. What do you recommend? A stuffed toy? A crib? A trust fund? I don’t know anything about what babies need.”

“Well…” said Jarvis, carefully, “you might consider proposing.”

“Proposing what?”

“Marriage.”

Mr. Stark nearly choked on his drink. “Are you out of your mind?!”

Jarvis had had enough. “She’s the future mother of your child!” he exclaimed. “You have a responsibility to Miss Carter. You’ve jeopardized her livelihood. You can’t simply—throw money at the problem and expect it to go away!”

Mr. Stark’s mouth opened and closed several times in rapid succession. “I never thought about it that way,” he said at last. “Propose, huh? Do you think Peggy would have me?” He sounded more amused by the prospect than anything.

Jarvis had no idea. He certainly wouldn’t have thought so, before all of this—and even now, he couldn’t honestly say he thought it was a suitable match. But that didn’t mean he was about to let Mr. Stark off the hook for what he’d done. 

“I think the decent thing to do is ask,” he said.

“You’re right. I guess I’d better call her up.”

Jarvis folded his arms expectantly.

“A man’s entitled to a little privacy at a time like this,” said Mr. Stark, who had, on multiple occasions, requested that Jarvis serve him a whiskey and soda in the shower.

“Of course, sir.”

*

There was a telephone in the pantry, for emergencies—such as when Mr. Stark required more martini olives. It was a bit of a nuisance, but it did mean that Jarvis was able to answer calls to the main house line without having to make a mad dash upstairs.

Jarvis happened to be tidying up the pantry shelves when a long distance call came through for Mr. Stark. This alone wasn't out of the ordinary: he had business partners all over the world. But the caller declined to give his name, which _was_ unusual—and the call came through directly, rather than through an operator.

Upstairs, the study door was ajar, so Jarvis stepped in. “Long distance, sir, from Rome.”

“Rome? Who do we know in—” He frowned, then snatched up the receiver. “Stark here. Yeah, I thought it might be you. Thanks for calling me back. Are you okay to talk? No, she’s fine, it’s not—you know, jail was my first thought too. Hang on.” He gestured for Jarvis to leave, adding, “Get the door on your way out.”

Downstairs, Jarvis stepped back into the pantry to hang up the extension. Rather than doing so, however, he found himself lifting the receiver to his ear, using his apron to muffle the speaking end. He’d never eavesdropped on his employer’s calls before, but these were exceptional circumstances.

“—can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for the mess she’s in,” Mr. Stark was saying, with his usual gift for understatement.

“I’m sure no one’s blaming you,” said an unfamiliar voice on the line. “Least of all Peggy. I know she isn’t the type to say so, but Paris meant a lot to her. You’re a good friend.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not too thrilled with me just now, I can tell you that much. Won’t even talk to me on the phone.”

“Howard... I know it’s a lot to ask so soon, but do you think you’ve got another one in you?” 

Jarvis nearly dropped the receiver entirely.

“Seriously? The last time almost killed me. It’s a lot trickier than people realize. You can’t take your mind off things for a second. And I don’t know if—”

“Edwin?”

He sprang straight upwards, smacking his head on the bare lightbulb that was the cupboard’s only source of illumination.

It was only Ana, of course. Jarvis gestured frantically for her to be quiet, replacing the receiver in the cradle as hastily as he dared.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

It was useless to lie. “In the service of a good cause,” he said, trying to disentangle his apron from the telephone with as much dignity as he could muster. “Was there something you needed?”

“Silver polish.” He noticed, belatedly, that she had a heavy silver candlestick in one hand, a soft rag in the other.

Without a word, he reached up to the top shelf and handed her the tin. 

“You’re an odd duck, Mr. Jarvis.”

“But a lucky one, Mrs. Jarvis.” He bent to kiss her cheek.

Her skeptical look melted into a soft smile. “Would you like the door open, or closed?”

He smiled back. “Surprise me.”

Jarvis would later come to think of those words as strangely prophetic.

#### The Solution

The doctor’s office called while Peggy was asleep, but Angie could do a decent British accent in a pinch. The results were in: there was a baby on the way.

Angie woke up her roommate to relay the news. Unsurprisingly, Peggy had a good cry over it. Then, for a chaser, she lost her lunch.

Once the storm had passed, they took a walk to the local drugstore, where Angie watched her friend drink her weight in malted milkshakes. The baby was getting some nutrition, at least. 

Next, they went shopping, to find Peggy a couple of summer dresses in a larger size. When Peggy got out her pocketbook at the till, Angie spotted a familiar face, tucked inside.

“So that’s where Steve ended up,” she remarked.

Peggy snapped the pocketbook shut and stowed it away without comment. “Shall we see a matinee? My treat.”

Angie knew the suggestion was probably just to get her off the trail, but she wasn’t immune to a little light bribery. “Sure.”

They chose a comedy, for a change: an American woman trying to bring her French sweetheart home as a male war bride. Peggy seemed to find it uproariously funny—though not, as she explained to Angie afterwards, terribly realistic.

All in all, it was a swell day.

The moment they were home, Peggy announced that she’d kill for a gin and tonic. 

“No hard liquor,” said Angie firmly.

Peggy sighed, dropping her hat and gloves on the hall table, and started down the hall—presumably headed for the tender embrace of her favourite fainting couch. “Are you going to keep this up until January?”

“Someone’s gotta look after you!”

“For the last time, I’m _fine_!” Peggy turned and flapped her hand frantically in Angie’s direction, as though she were an especially large and troublesome mosquito. “I’m having a baby, not—” 

She stopped short in the doorway. Angie crashed into her, the pair of them stumbling into the room like a couple of Keystone Cops. Peggy was the first to recover her balance—but all she did was stand there, mouth open, staring.

Howard Stark and his butler were in their drawing room.

Technically, Angie supposed, it was _his_ drawing room, so he didn’t really need to ask permission to drop in. But he’d never turned up unannounced before. Angie wondered if he’d decided to do the right thing, after all.

Peggy seemed to be lost for words, so Angie supplied the deficiency: “Hiya, fellas. What’s the occasion?”

“Just dropping off something of Peggy’s,” said Howard, and pointed—which was when Angie noticed that there was someone sitting across from him. 

The stranger stood up—and up, and up. He was broad-shouldered and square-jawed, movie-star handsome, with the bluest eyes Angie had ever seen. 

“You’re having a what, Peggy?”

She took a step closer, then another. “A baby,” she repeated, sounding slightly dazed.

“That’s what I thought you said.” He smiled. It made his face seem familiar, somehow, though Angie was sure she’d remember meeting a guy who looked like _that_.

Peggy pelted across the room and threw herself into his arms; he caught her up, crushed her close, and gave her one of the most perfect Hollywood kisses Angie had ever seen.

It went on for long enough that Angie started to wonder whether Peggy had been a deep-sea diver in her life before the war.

Mr. Jarvis cleared his throat loudly.

Peggy and the newcomer pulled apart, but kept their arms around each other. She glanced around the room: her cheeks were red, but her expression could only be described as fierce joy.

And just like that, Angie had a new number-one suspect. It didn’t take a detective to tell Peggy was crazy about this guy. And the feeling seemed mutual: he didn’t seem any more eager to take his hands off her than she did to be let go.

“So, you were gonna wire me eventually, right?” His voice was low and teasing—intimate, like they were the only two people in the room. “Or were you planning to just mail me the baby pictures?”

“I’ve only just confirmed it today,” she said indignantly. “Of course I would have—but I—how—how did you know? And how are you _here_?”

“Me, and me,” said Howard. “I’m starting my own trans-Atlantic airline, apparently.”

Peggy turned and threw her arm around his shoulders, pressing a forceful kiss to his cheek. “You ridiculous man. Thank you.”

“Hey, it’s the least I can do. After all, this whole situation is partially my fault. Though not entirely,” he added, looking over at Mr. Jarvis.

Peggy frowned. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Jarvis thought _I_ was the one who knocked you up. He even suggested that I ought to make an honest woman out of you.”

Mr. Jarvis was staring at the carpet like he hoped it might swallow him whole.

“Did he?” She smiled, in a way that might have been reassuring, if you didn’t know her at all. “And you, of course, informed him that I was already an honest woman. Correct?”

“Well… no, but only because it wasn’t my secret to give away.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?” Her tone was still cordial, but her arm had tightened noticeably.

“Peggy,” said Howard, equally amiable, “would you mind easing up on my neck? I’m partial to the way it connects my head to my shoulders.”

Peggy turned him loose.

“In my defense,” said Mr. Jarvis, with great dignity, “I was missing a key piece of evidence in the case.”

“The case?” echoed Peggy, incredulously. “Perhaps you’d better stick to laundry and forgery. Leave the detective work to the professionals.”

Angie had to give Jarvis credit: he was way too classy to sell her out. She was going to have to confess. “Um,” she said, raising her hand.

Everyone turned to look, as if they’d all just remembered she was there.

“I... may have floated the idea to Mr. Jarvis.”

“I should have known,” said Peggy, giving her a dire look. “Well done, Holmes and Watson. You’ve cracked it. Howard and I had a night of passion together.”

“Well, what was I supposed to think?”

“That I have a modicum of self-respect, for one!”

Howard silently mouthed the word _ouch_.

“It wasn’t like there were a lot of suspects to choose from. I knew it wasn’t any of the guys from work, or Mr. Fancy over here, and I didn’t know that you had a—a—this guy!” She pointed at Blue-Eyes. “What’s your story, anyhow?”

He and Peggy exchanged surprised glances.

“I didn’t think there was a need for introductions,” said Peggy, sounding a bit thrown. “Angie, this is Steve.”

“Steve? Like, _Steve_ Steve?”

“Same one,” he affirmed. “I mean, I think.”

“I haven’t started a collection,” said Peggy dryly.

He didn’t look much like his picture. Apparently those army boys were better-fed than they liked to make out. “Aren’t you, you know… dead?”

Mr. Jarvis looked mildly scandalized by her phrasing.

“Only on paper,” said Steve. “It makes my work a little easier if I have the element of surprise.”

“Well, it worked on me,” said Angie, honestly. “So, Steve, when’s the wedding?”

Peggy and Steve eyed each other sheepishly.

“1945,” said Howard, succinctly.

Angie wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that her friend had been married (to a bonafide dreamboat) this whole time, and never said a word. Mr. Jarvis’s gobsmacked expression helped a little; at least she wasn’t the last one to know.

“Peggy here is a war bride,” continued Howard, who seemed to be enjoying the hell out of the whole situation. 

“I wish you’d stop calling it that,” said Peggy. “You make it sound as though I had a whirlwind romance with some dashing young soldier and followed him home to keep house for him. It was practical, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” said Steve.

She patted his chest consolingly. “All right. You were a tiny bit dashing.”

“The uniform does most of the work.” He slid an arm around her shoulders, anchoring her to his side.

Something about his wry smile, and the word _uniform_ , struck a chord in the farthest reaches of Angie’s memory. She suddenly realized where she’d met Steve before.

She’d last seen him on a stage in New Jersey, wearing tights, a blue ski mask, and a bewildered expression.

‘Steve’ was _Captain Steve Rogers_.

“Passaic!” It wasn’t what she’d intended to shout, but her mouth and her brain didn’t seem to be connecting all the way.

“Brooklyn, actually.” He sounded mildly offended.

“No, darling.” Peggy rolled her eyes a little, but with fondness. “Angie saw your USO show. You’ve been rumbled.”

“Passaic,” echoed Steve, thoughtfully. “Jeez. That was a rough one. Someone thought it would be funny to put all my cue cards in the wrong order. And then the guy playing Hitler missed his mark, and I really knocked him out.”

“Apparently you still made quite an impression,” said Peggy, shooting her friend a teasing glance. “She saw the matinee _and_ the evening show.”

Angie blushed. She vaguely recalled gushing about what a hunk he was, on more than one occasion. She hadn’t realized she was talking to _Mrs_. America.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Peggy slipped free of Steve’s grasp, came over to her, and gave her a hug.

“You’re a good friend, Angie. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.”

“Forget about it, English.” Angie waved her concerns aside. Leaning in, she whispered, “If I had a fella who looked like that, I’m not sure I’d want my girl friends to know about him, either.”

Peggy beamed. “Yes, I suppose he’s quite something, objectively considered. I should warn you, though, he’s got ears like a bat.”

“Who’s got ears like a what?” asked Steve, innocently.

Howard, apparently bored now that the conversation wasn’t about him, announced, “I think we should celebrate my un-engagement with a drink. There’s a great little bar on the corner.”

“I’m not dressed for going out,” said Peggy—which was funny, since she and Angie had just been out for most of the day.

“That’s okay, pal. You’re not invited.” Howard clapped his hat onto his head. “You either, Rogers. Everyone else, let’s go.”

It was a transparent ploy; if Angie had read it in a script, she would have thrown the book across the room. But she also hadn’t missed the way Peggy and Steve had been sneaking looks, or the way they kept pulling closer to each other, like their bodies were magnetized. Neither of them seemed too put out to be excluded from Howard’s invitation.

“Only if you’re buying,” said Angie, boldly.

Howard grinned. “Have we met? Of course I’m buying.” He offered her his arm. “Come on, Broadway, let’s go places.”

As he led her out the door, Angie peeked over her shoulder—just in time to see Peggy vault into her husband’s arms again.

*

Howard’s 'little bar on the corner' turned out to be a private club three blocks down, four blocks over, and two flights up. There was a cover charge, which Howard paid, and a bottle of expensive champagne, which Howard opened. The private room they were seated in had stained-glass windows all the way to the ceiling, and smelled like leather, cigars, and money. Angie definitely did not feel dressed for the occasion.

Over drinks (one drink, in Angie’s case, because a girl needed to keep her wits about her), the three of them compared notes and got the whole story straightened out.

Steve really _had_ gone missing at the end of the war—until Howard had managed to fish him out of the North Atlantic. He and Peggy had gotten hitched shortly after.

They’d been under strict instructions to keep the rescue operation under wraps: HYDRA thinking Captain America was dead meant they were more likely to let their guard down. Steve had spent the past year flushing out isolated cells in the far corners of the world, while back home, Peggy kept her connection to Captain America a secret.

“I have to give them credit,” said Howard. “They did a better job of keeping the marriage under wraps than they did with the courtship. They used to write each other these letters, in code—Peggy started out as a code-breaker, did you know?”

Angie hadn’t, of course.

Mr. Jarvis cleared his throat forcefully, suggesting it probably wasn’t information Howard should be giving out.

“They got called on the carpet by their CO at least once—I think that was after Steve was caught on film carrying her picture.” Howard chuckled. “Those two crazy kids. They never even had a real honeymoon. Nothing like it. Married by an army chaplain, in their uniforms, and the next day they both went back to work like nothing had changed. Funny enough, it never seemed to bother them.”

Angie recalled Peggy's downer mood, the week after her trip with Howard—and her picture of Steve, a version of him no one could possibly recognize. “It must’ve bothered them a little.”

Mr. Jarvis nodded sagely.

Angie and Jarvis had been right about the timeline—that night Howard had turned up, he’d flown Peggy non-stop to Paris, in an experimental aircraft he’d been working on. Steve was there, on a weekend pass, waiting for her.

And then, unbeknownst to anyone, Peggy had made the trip back with a passenger of her own on board.

“I don’t suppose _you_ know anything about baby gifts,” said Howard, with a debonair smile, “seeing as you’re still a baby yourself.”

“I’m old enough not to fall for that,” said Angie, taking a genteel sip of her champagne. “But, since you asked… it’s hard to go wrong with Captain America pajamas.”

“I don’t know if that’s very conducive to keeping a low profile,” Mr. Jarvis pointed out.

“Hopefully they won't need to for much longer. Steve told me he put in a transfer request as soon as he heard the news.”

Angie was happy for Peggy, but she couldn’t help feeling a little bit sorry for herself. She was sure they’d still see each other, but it wasn’t the same as living together. Besides which, she’d have to find a new apartment, and there was no way it’d be anywhere near as fancy as Howard’s penthouse.

“Lousy luck for you, Broadway,” said Howard, as if reading her mind. He moved to top up her champagne flute, but she waved him away, shielding the top of the glass with her hand.

“You’re telling me. Between that, and the automat installing a bunch of coffee robots, I’m starting to think I might have to move back with my parents.”

“Have you ever thought about being in pictures?”

“Not much,” said Angie drolly. “Only every day my whole life. Why?”

“I’m looking at getting into the movie business.”

She snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve never used _that_ line before.”

“It’s not a line.” He looked genuinely alarmed at the thought. “Are you kidding? You’re cute, sure, but Peg would murder me. Besides, it's the least I can do. Stark Industries makes those coffee robots.”

“Your movie better have a part for every waitress in Manhattan, in that case.”

“How do you feel about westerns based on comic books?”

“You got a script, pardner?”

“Jarvis’ll drop one off tomorrow morning.”

“Swell,” said Angie, offering her glass to be filled. “He knows where I live.”

*

Letting herself into the penthouse, Angie made sure to drop her keys on the tile floor, and make a lot of noise taking her shoes off. Just in case she'd interrupted any activities in any of the apartment's shared rooms.

She peeked into the drawing room. The tall curtains were drawn against the setting sun, the room nearly dark. She probably would have missed seeing them entirely, if one of them hadn’t been snoring like a buzzsaw.

They were stretched out on Peggy’s fainting couch: Steve, sprawled on his back with both feet on the floor, and Peggy, curled up on his chest, the top of her head tucked under his chin. Both of them sound asleep, mouths open like a couple of trout on the line. 

Angie thought Peggy was doing the snoring, but she couldn’t be sure.

So much for romance.

Still, it was sweet, in a strange sort of way. The occasional nap together was something most couples took for granted; these two probably hadn’t slept in the same bed more than a few times for their entire marriage. Peggy had hold of Steve by the collar, like she’d fallen asleep right in the middle of arresting him for something. Steve had one large hand buried in Peggy’s hair, the other splayed across her backside. Even in sleep, they couldn't stand to let go of each other for a second. Angie wasn’t sure why they hadn’t just gone to sleep in Peggy’s room, but they seemed happy, at least.

And if Peggy was happy, then Angie was happy.

Case closed.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear em_penny4alittlehope,
> 
> I based this story on your prompt: 
> 
> _Preggy!Steggy_  
>  _Friends of the duo(i.e. Angie, Howard, the Jarvises, Bucky, the commandos, colonel Philips, coworkers, etc.) discover that Peggy's pregnant by observations alone - the more humorous the reveal the better!_
> 
> The emphasis on the “reveal” made me think of the drawing-room gathering that happens at the end of a murder mystery, where all of the suspects are in one place, and the perpetrator of the crime is finally named. And so I figured I’d write a little mystery of my own (with my sincerest apologies to Agatha Christie).
> 
> I didn’t have time to cover off the reactions of all the characters, but hopefully the ones I did include were humorous enough to make up for it. ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
>   
> **Story notes:**
> 
> Malted milk absolutely did not have vitamins in it, but it was considered a healthy meal option back in the day, especially if you were sick.
> 
>  _I Was a Male War Bride_ didn’t come out until 1949, but if you’re on board for all the shenanigans that take place in this story, I’m sure that small detail isn’t going to bother you.
> 
> I originally had a lot more to say about automats that didn't make the cut, but if you're keen on learning more, fill your boots: [ThoughtCo: The Rise and Fall of the Automat](https://www.thoughtco.com/the-rise-and-fall-of-the-automat-4152992)


End file.
